


the days we've lost (are far behind)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant has no idea what's going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the days we've lost (are far behind)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really discouraged with my writing lately and I have no idea whether this is any good at all, but....when inspiration hits, it hits. What can you do?
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant has no idea what’s going on.

“We knew it was possible,” the terror-pale doctor is saying to John, voice shaking so bad he’s gotta be expecting a bullet to the face any second now. “Considering the extent of the damage, he’s actually extremely lucky—”

Well, okay, he’s got _some_ idea. He’s got a head injury and he’s missing some chunk of time (the part where the doctor asked him the date and then dropped his clipboard when he started with ‘March’ was a pretty big tip-off there), so he’s obviously got at least a little amnesia—hopefully the temporary kind.

But he’s not on the Bus _or_ in a SHIELD medical facility and there’s no sign of the team anywhere, so…yeah. He’s a little confused.

“Is it permanent?” John—who’s looking even more cheerful than usual; that could be a very good or a very bad sign—interrupts the rambling doctor to ask.

The doctor mutters something non-committal.

“Ah, get out of here,” John dismisses, and turns to Grant as the man flees gratefully. “So, got yourself a little bump there, huh?”

“Apparently.” Grant touches his temple gingerly, feeling along the side of the distant throb that’s probably gonna turn into agony as soon as the painkillers wear off. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” John says, frowning.

Grant gestures pointedly to the room around them—the notable lack of SHIELD logos and, more importantly, the notable lack of SHIELD _personnel_. His team can be irritating and frustrating and _painfully_ moral, but he’ll give them one thing: they don’t take him being injured lightly. If they’re not here, there’s a reason for it.

“Right, right,” John says, expression clearing. “Well. It’s a hell of a thing, kid. A lot’s happened since March—more than I can really cover in a few minutes.” He crosses his arms thoughtfully. “Here’s the Cliff Notes version: HYDRA’s out of the shadows, SHIELD’s done, and I’m one hundred percent cured.” He beams. “Which is down mostly to your work on Coulson’s team, so thanks for that.”

“What?” Grant’s gaping. He _knows_ he’s gaping, but— “ _What_?”

“I know,” John says sympathetically. “It’s a lot to take in. And—ah, here,” he interrupts himself, glancing out the open door. Grant can’t see into the hall from where he’s sitting, but John can. “This’ll help.”

The bottom drops out of Grant’s stomach when _this_ turns out to be Simmons.

“You wanted to see me?” she asks John. Her tone is quietly deferential, but Grant reads a hell of a lot of resentment in the set of her jaw.

Her _bruised_ jaw. She’s in bad shape—bruises, split lip, splinted wrist, and it’s hard to tell when she’s standing still but he’s pretty sure she was limping when she walked in—and just the sight of her has him itching with the urge to break something—some _one_. He has to tamp down on the urge to grab her and demand answers—to demand a _name_ , someone he can track down and punish for daring to lay hands on her.

He doesn’t _want_ to tamp down on the urge. He wants to find the jackass who hurt her and teach him some _manners_ , drag him in front of Simmons and make him beg her forgiveness. But if HYDRA’s out of the shadows (and, seriously, _what_?) and she’s here, it’s a good bet it was someone on his side who inflicted those injuries.

And if the way she’s pointedly avoiding his eyes is any indication, she wouldn’t welcome his concern anyway.

“Yeah,” John says, clapping a hand to her shoulder and squeezing tightly. She flinches—though whether it’s because he’s aggravated more injuries or just because he’s _John_ is any guess. “My boy here’s a little confused—took a good whack this morning and lost some time. You’re gonna keep him company and get him up to speed.”

Simmons’ eyes dart to him and then away just as quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” John pats her cheek. “You play nice, now.”

“John,” Grant says, and then stops. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

If John thinks anything of the false start, he doesn’t show it. “Take it easy today, son. I need you in fighting shape.”

That said, he strides out of the room, leaving Grant alone with Simmons.

It’s awkward.

It’s been a long time since a silence with Simmons was uncomfortable. They’re _friends_ —or at least they were. Things have gotten a little tense a time or two, but even in the beginning, back on their very first mission, it was never like this. She’s definitely never been content to stand back when he’s injured, yet that’s exactly what she’s doing now—standing back, a few feet from the bed, hands folded neatly in front of her and eyes fixed firmly on her shoes.

She’s also radiating resentment—so much he could choke on it. There was never any way the whole Grant working for Centipede thing would go over well, but somehow he gets the feeling the reveal was downright terrible.

(And seriously, _how_ did that get revealed? What the hell _happened_?)

“Sooooo,” he draws out when he can’t stand the awkward tension any longer. “Incentives program?”

Simmons’ mouth goes tight. “Yes.”

“Your parents?”

She nods once, sharply, eyes still on her shoes.

“And Fitz?” he asks, careful to keep his unease out of his voice.

Her throat works silently for a minute, and dread unfolds in Grant’s gut.

“I don’t know,” she says, finally. “With SHIELD, I presume.”

“John said SHIELD was done.” Grant’s choosing not to examine his own relief at the suggestion it’s _not_.

“He’d like us to be, I’m sure,” she says, and even though she’s still addressing her shoes, there’s no denying the pride in her very slight smile. “But we’ve endured—and been quite the thorn in his side in the process.”

_We_ , she says, like she’s not working for HYDRA herself. The Incentives program hasn’t killed her spirit, then. It’s a relief—even if it’s probably why she’s covered in bruises.

He eyes them for a minute. The ones on her face are all either pale green or bright red, obviously the product of two separate beatings—one about a week ago and one very recently. John usually takes better care of his scientists than that—an injured scientist is an ineffective scientist—and in any case, he doesn’t _need_ to keep the Incentives crew in line with violence. That’s what the hostages are for.

Which means that if Simmons’ been beaten— _twice_ —it’s probably because she’s made an enemy of one of the Ops agents on base. As stubborn as she is, and as much as she must hate working for them, it’s not exactly a surprise, but it _is_ annoying.

Once he gets the lay of the land, he’s definitely gonna have to track down whoever’s responsible for those bruises. Just because Simmons is here against her will doesn’t make her any less one of Grant’s people, and he _really_ doesn’t appreciate her being mistreated.

But that’s for later. For now, he still has questions.

“John also said he’s cured,” he says. “You know how that happened?”

“I do,” she says, voice deliberately even. “A compound called GH-325. It’s what saved Coulson’s life after New York.”

Her voice might be even, but there’s a long and very unhappy story written in the glare she aims at her shoes. He thinks he’s probably better off not pursuing it right this second.

With any luck, his memory will come back soon, and he won’t _have_ to ask.

“Speaking of Coulson,” he says instead, “are any of the others with us? Or is it just you and me?”

Her lip trembles the slightest bit before she thins her mouth. “Just us.”

Huh. He does wonder how she ended up here, especially without Fitz, but that’s another thing that should probably wait.

“Where are we, by the way?” he asks. The room’s a generic medical suite and there are no windows, so there’s no way of knowing.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “We were moved recently. I wasn’t consulted.”

There’s no denying her bitterness, and he has to smile, even though it’s probably gotten her in trouble more than once. She’s good at _acting_ obedient—her deferential tone has barely wavered and her expression has stayed appropriately placid—but Simmons has too much spine to actually adopt the kind of subservient mindset HYDRA likes to drill into its unwilling recruits.

For her sake, he wishes she would—he’s willing to lay odds that subtle rebellion is half the reason she’s sporting those bruises—but for his own, he’s selfishly glad to see the proof of her resilience. Even her obedient act must’ve been hard won, and it aches more than he would’ve expected, thinking of exactly how John might’ve taught her the value of cooperation. He doesn’t even want to _imagine_ her being totally broken.

There’s no denying it: he is ridiculously, pathetically attached to his team, Simmons included. Knowing what she must have suffered under John’s control…

Okay, these thoughts aren’t going anywhere good. It’s time to get out of this hospital room, before he does something stupid like try to _comfort_ her.

The first time he tried to stand, the swimming in his head nearly had him falling, which is why he’s held this whole conversation sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s feeling much steadier now, though; he thinks he’ll be okay standing.

As he does so, Simmons takes three rapid quick steps back, nearly tripping over the visitor’s chair in her haste. He freezes, something clenching painfully in his chest.

She still hasn’t met his eyes, but now that he really looks at her, looks past the bruises and actually takes in her expression…that’s not resentment painting her face. She was resentful talking to John, but here and now, with Grant?

She’s _scared_.

Or…no. Maybe not. Maybe he’s misreading her. Maybe he just startled her, standing up without warning like that. He knows she's had a crush on him since October, and she tends towards keeping a careful distance between them (which he's made a point of closing as often as possible, just to see her blush). If she's still got that crush—which is likely, after all the trouble he's gone to to encourage it—she probably hates it now. It makes sense she'd be even more conscious of keeping her distance when her crush has gone from embarrassing infatuation with a teammate to embarrassing infatuation with the  _enemy_.

But when he reaches for the jacket hanging from the back of the chair behind her, she flinches so violently that he knows he’s not wrong. She’s terrified—of him. It’s not just habit that has her playing obedient; she thinks she _needs_ to be.

What could’ve done that? Even when he was being influenced by the berserker staff, she was never _this_ frightened. He all but screamed in her face, and she was more hurt than afraid. How badly could HYDRA stepping out of the shadows have gone, that she’s more scared of Grant—a man who spent months protecting and living beside her—than _John_?

…Or maybe it wasn’t the uprising that scared her. Maybe it’s worse than that.

Heart heavy, he once again studies the bruising on her downturned face.

He wonders if it’s from him.


End file.
